


Unworthy Comparisons

by actualtimelady



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M, Memories, cw for depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2018-04-24 06:00:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4908049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/actualtimelady/pseuds/actualtimelady
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen reflects on the differences between the two women who touched his lives: the mage he had scorned, then lost, and the rogue who swept everything away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unworthy Comparisons

It was wrong to compare them, he knew.

The fact that he was willing to compare them was another thing. He had let that spot fester for the last ten years. The big mistake he’d made in his early twenties that was still part of the nightmares he had to this day.

Comparing them was also pointless, given they were nothing alike, anyway. Gwendolyn Amell was fire and light. Orange-red hair shone in the candlelight as she poured over books well into the night as he guarded the library. That’s how he liked to remember her in his waking hours when he was able to control most of his thoughts. Pale skin that would have freckled if she had gone out into the sun more, eyes that were as sharp and clear as the green grass on a spring morning. A secret smile that she reserved just for him, that had flustered his impressionable mind so back when he believed true love was something that could be achieved with a glance.

Her personality, when he got snatches of it in passing or in the rare moment when she snuck a quick chat wasn’t the fire that matched her hair. It was a summer breeze. Light, playful, warm, tugging at strands of hair and rustling everything movable. It went with sunshine and picnics on the lawns, and sent gentle rolling waves through calm waters like an invitation to liveliness.

He remembered her Harrowing --he was chosen to give the killing blow if she failed. He would have had to strike her where she stood if any change had come over her. The mere idea that she might have succumbed was…

Well, he would rather not think on it in daylight. His nightmares held enough of that.

Then when she was done… She was radiant. Pride shone out of her eyes as she walked up to him and spoke so sweetly that he had to back out before his vows came into question. He could have kissed her right there. Should have kissed her right there. He was so connected to his damned duty that he couldn’t take the chance.

And then she was gone. Vanished into the abyss that is the world outside the circle tower. She became a Grey Warden. A bird set free to make it out just before the storm could hit. And hit, it did.

They used her against him. She was part of the gruesome imagery he was made to witness in the days of ruin when corruption and abominations overtook the circle tower. Their faces morphed to hers. Their voices made hers not a bell, as he had known it in her apprenticeship, but nails to a slate, warped and twisted as the one they knew could get to him. It was his family, too, but she was more immediate. More recent. More accessible.

And when she returned, he didn’t believe it. Couldn’t believe it. She was as she had been, almost like a former life back to taunt him. She had others with her --an older mage, a dog, and another warden, one with templar training. She said they were there to help but there was no helping. Maker, there was nothing left. Nothing there. Nothing that she could have done. He scorned her, called her names, yelled his frustration in hopes of achieving blackness for a few blissful hours… but all he got was a sad look in those beautiful eyes as she turned away to manage what he had failed this entire time.

A few hours later, she was gone from his life forever.

Melori Lavellan… was something else entirely. Earth, rather than incense. Shadow where Gwendolyn had been fire. Dark tones offset only by bright markings on her face that represented her homage to one of her Gods. She could dual wield twin blades and be in and out, quick as lightning. Watching her train in the yard or in private sessions was like watching an elaborate dance, the way she could glide and spin, nary a misstep to be seen.

Dark hair, black as the abyss, curled into tight spirals around her face, half tied to keep all but a few, short strands out of cunning eyes that were almost as sharp as the knives she polished nightly. No makeup around skyhold. Dark makeup in the field. Halamshiral saw golden highlights that glittered at the corner of her eyes, a subtle touch of elegance that brought out the gold of her skin and made her seem to glow in the soft light of the ballroom.

As the herald, he had been unsure. A dangerous flirt with a mark he didn’t understand. That no one understood. She didn’t believe in the Maker. She didn’t see how she could have been chosen as they knew she had to have been.

And as time went on, that was strangely alright. She showed remarkable cunning, great skill in battle, and a knack for leadership that made him and others want to follow her lead, even if they weren’t always pleased with the direction she had taken.

But the thing that had warped her forever in his mind from a symbol to… this? Her sacrifice. She sent them all away, even those who were going to stay behind with her. Even those who mocked her. Those who doubted her. Those who said she was nothing. She sent them all through the exit to give them a fighting chance at survival. In that moment he felt many things: a flutter of pride, a touch of admiration, the warmth of attraction… and a sting of loss. Lie as he might, he couldn’t see her surviving this. There was no way.

And yet.

And yet, she came hobbling up to them. Freezing, starving, barely able to stand long enough for them to have spotted her before she fell into the snow, and Cullen’s heart gave a leap. She was okay. She would be okay. They had mages, surgeons, poultices, everything at their disposal to make her right and it was all thanks to her.

She led them, with some help, to Skyhold. To the glorious place that would house everyone, that would be able to be defended against attack. Some walls were crumbling and he slept under an open sky, but nearly everyone was safe.

She was safe.

There was flirting, slightly less awkward with each attempt. He grew into the confidence she exuded with little effort, playful banter and easy talk over the war table, over meals with the advisors, in his office, and, somehow, over chess when they had a moment with slightly less prying eyes.

And then there was the kiss. Sweet Maker, that kiss. At first, too rushed. He was unpracticed, unskilled. He had been so sure he had messed everything up, but a smirk and some wit on her part and everything was okay again. The second was better, and the third was better after that.

But still, his dreams of Ferelden’s Circle and Kirkwall’s Gallows haunted him. Things were harder without the lyrium. It was always harder without the lyrium. He woke up in cold sweats, screaming at the unforgiving sky as his body arched with remembered pain and suffering. He wanted to quit, to take lyrium and just go. To not have to face her or this or the failures of a past he had no right to try and redeem or escape. Go and leave everything behind as soon as his replacement could be found to suffer in the dark emptiness of his mind and let better men and women run the organization he knew had the potential to change and shape the world. He wasn’t worthy of the good name he had by association. He wasn’t worthy of all this. He wasn’t worthy of her.

But she didn’t believe, and with desperate hands he clutched onto that lack of belief. He needed it. He needed someone who could believe the good in him that didn’t come from his tactical knowledge or the command he had over his men. She believed in him, so he would try. How could he not.

She had seen him at his worst. She had known his anger and suffering and pain. Everyone had those in wartime, and he would give her an out when the time came. And he did. They were thwarting demon armies and attacks on empresses, shutting down plan after plan. Soon, all that would be left was the man himself. Or the monster.

So he gave it to her. Told her what he wanted: that they could go beyond the war, the two of them, and all she need to is give her okay. And she did. Sweet Maker, oh, she did.

The dreams came again that night, but waking up to her beautiful face had eased him somewhat. A worried frown soften as he gave her reassurances. A lightness as she explored his face that sent chills down his spine that had nothing to do with the open air.

“Despite the dreams, is this still a good morning?”

“It’s perfect” and it was. This is what he wanted. Her by his side in the mornings to chase his dreams in addition to his side on the battlefield and at the war table. “You are…” he didn’t have the words to describe what she had come to mean to him. “I have never felt anything like this”

“I love you, Cullen, you know that, right?” his heart skipped a beat, then another. Had he heard-- but there it was, in her eyes. Hope and adoration and warmth bundled into one.

“I love you, too”

It was the perfect morning.


End file.
